Eat Your Vegetables
by The Leavening Agent
Summary: In response to a kink meme prompt: Normal food makes Hannibal gag. Character of your choice finds out and decides to help him.
1. Prologue

Will itches to pull the receiver away from his face, the rhythmic buzzing putting him in mind of hornets trying to crawl into his ear. It goes on for longer than he thinks it should.

Finally, a click.

"Freddie Lounds."

"Hi, Miss Lounds. This – this is Will Graham."

"Ah, Mr. Graham." She sounds so delighted Will can see the sheen of her eyes inside his head, vibrant and sharp in the dense fog. "I was wondering when you'd call."

"You were?"

"After everything that happened between you and Doctor Lecter," she simpers in mock sympathy and Will can feel his fingers beginning to tremble as he curls them tighter around the receiver. "I knew it was only a matter of time before one of my articles caught your attention."

"You _do_ seem to have a fondness for him," Will manages to grind out, tensing his jaw to keep his voice from quivering.

"Well, it's an interesting case." It may just be the same old sense of paranoia Will always feels whenever he and Freddie talk, creeping up his spine like a cold set of fingers, but he's sure he hears the click of a voice recorder somewhere in the background. Is he on speakerphone? "Not just the murders themselves but how long he managed to evade capture. It's truly astonishing."

"I'm well aware of just how astonishing he can be, Ms. Lounds." The bandage wrapped tightly around his waist to protect the butterfly stitches still piecing him together start to itch. "But that's not why I'm calling."

"No, you're calling about the article."

"_'Cannibal Goes Hungry'_ seems like a contradiction in terms, don't you think?"

"Not really." He can hear Freddie's smile in her voice, the apparent boredom of the conversation laced with a sort of smugness. Will supposes it must make for a nice change of pace, to be able to correct him on something he's missed. "As I'm sure you know from experience, Mr. Graham, a good steak is hard to find in an asylum, much less one made out of people."

"I wanted to ask you about your sources."

"I can't go into detail." _Won't_, Will thinks. _You won't go into detail_. "For obvious reasons. But I can tell you they're reliable."

Will runs the back of his hand across his face, smearing away the sweat already beginning to gather on his top lip.

"Th-thank you, Ms. Lounds. That's all I wanted to know."

"You're welcome, Mr. Graham. Say hello to Doctor Lecter for me, won't you?"

Will lets the receiver fall into the cradle with a heavy _thunk_, leaning with his hands on the table, breathing deeply. He smooths out the creases in the article he's printed and looks over the words for the ninth time:

_**Cannibal Goes Hungry:**__  
Off-Piste Ordering Gets the Ripper Down._

Once again, one of Baltimore's most prolific serial killers finds himself in the news. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the cannibalistic serial killer more famously known by his handle, The Chesapeake Ripper, was convicted and incarcerated in Baltimore's State Hospital for the Criminally Insane just last month and our sources here at _ have revealed that the menu clearly isn't up to scratch..._

Will doesn't need to read anymore, he already knows what the article says. And he doesn't believe a word of it.

* * *

"This isn't a petting zoo, Mr. Graham," Chilton is telling him as he leans back in his office chair, his chest puffed out with self-importance, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I can't allow visitors to come and go as they please. It's unethical."

Will takes a breath, staring through the window at all the greenery outside. Reminding himself that freedom is only a five minute walk away. "It's unethical to lock up the innocent as well, Doctor Chilton, but that didn't stop you, did it?"

"That's neither here nor there. At the time we didn't –"

"I'm not interested in your excuses." Will turns to glare at a corner of Chilton's highly polished desk, ignoring both of their reflections as they stare back at him. "You can't talk to me about Lecter's treatment so let me do it myself. I need access to his cell."

"Does the FBI know you're here, Mr. Graham?"

"You want me to give Jack Crawford a call? Alright." Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Will draws out his cell phone, taking his time as he clicks through the menu. "I'm sure he won't mind coming all the way down here. He'll probably want to give everything a once over anyway, make sure it's all running as it should."

Lips pursed into a thin line, Chilton reaches into his desk and before Will can find Jack's name in his phone's menu, tosses a laminated visitor's pass onto his desk.

"Take your time," Chilton sneers at him. "He's not going anywhere."


	2. Chapter 1

Walking the length of the high-security wing feels a lot like walking through the kennels of a dog pound.

Behind every set of bars, every glass partition, empty faces devoid of character or of personality stare back at him, whining for his attention. Some barking, others screaming. Most stay curled in their corners, heads down and eyes darting anxiously from side to side.

Will avoids looking at them – he's not sure he'll ever be able to look at them again, not after everything – and walks with measured, purposeful strides past their cells, his eyes focused on the far wall. It's reassuringly blank.

"Doctor Lecter's in the last cell but one," an orderly had told him before he edged his way through the security doors. Will had paused before venturing any further, turning on his heel with a frown.

"Why that one?"

The guard had shrugged at him. "Dunno, it was at Doctor's Lecter's insistence. Said he was saving the other one for someone."

Blinking at him, Will choked down his astonishment and the sudden urge to barge his way back through the door, to stick his boot in the gap before the orderly got the chance to close it behind him. He suspected that, if he did, the guard would only push him back by the shoulder and slam the door in his face to peer at him through the thick glass. Just another nut that needs to be controlled.

Curling his hands at his sides, Will managed a quiet, "Oh."

Now, he finds himself walking through a dream, the soft thud of his boots loud in his ears. They're the ones he used for fishing, for his walks, and in this sterile environment he's conscious of the smell of wet earth and bait that might be clinging to them. Lecter probably already knows he's here.

Too soon for his liking, Will stops outside the glass.

Hannibal sits on the creaking springs of his bed with such an air of expectation, Will can't be sure he hadn't called ahead and made an appointment. In the meagre surroundings, he looks as immaculate as ever, with his hair coiffed just so and his jumpsuit, matt and grey and coarse in a way that looks unnatural on Hannibal, smoothed to perfection. But everything about him is stretched too thin; his skin is like a bed sheet that won't stretch all the way to the corners. His cheek bones are sunken in a way that, where once they'd been flatteringly ethereal, they now look sharp and painful. He seems to be swimming in his uniform, swamped underneath too much cheap fabric.

He sits with his legs crossed at the knee, hands folded on his lap, his smirk more self-satisfied than Will thinks it has the right to be.

Taking a steadying breath, Will takes his glasses off his nose and pretends to clean them on the edge of his shirt. It's easier to look at the world through a haze.

"You look like hell," he croaks into the silence.

Hannibal has the audacity to keep smirking at him, his dark eyes glittering in amusement. "You look much better than expected, Will. You've recovered well."

"I recovered." It'll be a long time before Will starts to feel anything like himself again, provided he can remember precisely who that is.

"I'm glad."

His infuriating calm makes Will want to scream at him, to shatter it, to change _something_ about him. He preferred Hannibal when he was being himself, a murderer with a scalpel in his hand and blood smeared across his face. It made him easier to see.

Looking at him now, Hannibal reminds Will of a stray he'd once picked up, a shabby thing with heavy clumps of fur clinging to its body, making it look twice as large as it actually was. When Will had managed to shear it clean, cutting away the crumbling remains of hair, ticks and fleas, he could see how truly skinny it was. How sickly it had become.

Its ribs had stuck out so prominently that Will was sure he could have played a tune against them if he'd wanted to, its grey skin pulled tightly across every protrusion, threatening to split. He remembers running his hand down the length of its spine, feeling each knot of its vertebrae until it sunk down between the large plates of its hips.

He'd fed it small amounts of wet mush at regular intervals encouragingly but it had been too late. It died a few days later, shivering into stillness and Will had had to bury it in the woods.

"So," Will breathes shakily. "Here I am."

Hannibal stays patiently silent, tilting his head carefully to one side.

"I assume that's what you wanted? To get me here?"

"Assumptions are dangerous things, Will." _And so am I._

"They're less dangerous than they used to be." Nevertheless, Will takes a single step away from the thickened Plexiglas separating them, not trusting that Hannibal won't suddenly become incorporeal and sink through it as easily as smoke. "I read Freddie Lounds' article."

"Yes, I understand she has a reliable source in one of the staff," remarks Hannibal conversationally, nonplussed. "I hope she hasn't been upsetting you again?"

"She says you're on a hunger strike."

Like a light going out behind his eyes, Hannibal's expression turns carefully blank and, a dangerous smirk still cutting at the corner of his mouth, stays quiet. Will opens his mouth, to elaborate, to make some excuse as to why he's here but a sudden buzz rings out through the hall, harsh and shuddering.

A light at the opposite end of the corridor glows green and, suddenly remembering that they aren't alone, Will watches as an orderly steps through the open door, a metal chair dangling from his fingers. He strides towards them with confidence and, shooting Will an easy smile, unfolds it and sets it in front of Hannibal's cell.

Will only nods his thanks.

The orderly turns, nodding genially at Doctor Lecter. "Morning."

"Thank you, Ralph," Hannibal replies and Will almost forgets where he is, so easily does Hannibal slip into meaningless pleasantries. Years of practice probably help.

Will sits stiffly in the chair, the legs raking across the floor as he scoots it back, and waits until they're more or less alone again.

He wets his dry lips.

"There're less childish ways of getting my attention, you know." And still he says nothing. "So you can cross the silent treatment off of your list. What's next, gonna hold your breath until you pass out?"

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Will stares at Hannibal's chin, ignoring his half-hearted smirk, the way he tuts at him in disapproval. "Narcissism doesn't suit you, Will."

"It's not narcissism when it's true," Will counters defiantly. "Why else would you choose to do this to yourself? This is in no way consistent with your pathology. You're hedonistic. You don't like suffering unless it's somebody else's."

"Perhaps," Hannibal supplies calmly, his hands folded in his lap in such a familiar way that Will has to jerk himself back to the present, "you're missing something?" Will half expects him to reach for a piece of paper on his desk, to press it against his knee like a clipboard and pretend that they're stuck in the past.

"Don't tell me the food's just not good enough for you," Will sneers, his lip curling.

"No, I'm sure it's perfectly adequate," intones Hannibal with a shrug, spreading his hands placating. "As far as hospital fare goes, I understand that it's better than most."

There's an audible whine, a gurgle so deep and guttural that it puts Will in mind of creaking plumbing in an old house, rusted with disuse. In response, Hannibal presses a hand to the flat concave of his stomach, the excess fabric of his hospital issued clothing rucking beneath his fingers. "Forgive me, Will. All this talk of food has left me quite famished."

Will blinks at him, startled. "You're actually starving, aren't you?"

"You say that as though you think it impossible," remarks Hannibal calmly. "Despite what you may think of me, Will, and in spite of what you read in the papers, I'm still only a man."

Hannibal reaches for the paper cup sitting beside his heel and raises it to his lips, drinking lukewarm water in slow, measured sips. Pacing himself, easing away the nausea Will knows comes with those sudden, somehow unexpected pangs of hunger.

Will ignores the cramping in his own stomach, resists sitting forward in his chair to put pressure on it. He can't sit here for much longer.

"There's a vending machine in the lobby," he says reluctantly, straightening out of his chair and staring at his shoes. "We're putting an end to this now."

Without waiting for Hannibal's permission, he makes his way back down the row of cells, ignoring the lewd, pallid faces of the other inmates staring back at him through the reinforced glass. The folding chair stays where it is, promising his return.

The same orderly is already waiting for him by the door.

"I'll be back in ten minutes," Will tells him as the buzzer sounds and he slips through the narrow opening. On the other side, he can feel the weight lifting off of his chest. He can breathe easier.


	3. Chapter 2

When he gets back, there's barely any sign that Hannibal's even moved. He sits exactly where he was, the cup of water – full now, Will notes, and perspiring at the edges – cradled between both of his hands. His eyes, for once, don't immediately find Will's but instead fall to the too colourful bundle in his arms.

Retaking his seat, Will sets each item on the floor one by one to give Hannibal a chance to inspect them. Getting him on board with the idea is step one of Will's slapdash plan to get him eating again.

Will carefully watches his reaction as he sets a sloshing can of Coca-Cola on the floor, the aluminium frosted and dotted with his fingerprints. Despite himself, Hannibal licks his lips.

"This is how this is going to work," Will tells him sternly, arranging everything in a neat line. "I'm going to hand these to you and you're gonna be damn grateful that I even give a rat's ass. Alright?"

He watches as Hannibal's adam's apple bobs up and down

"Junk food?" He asks with no small amount of scepticism. "That's your answer?"

"Lots of sugar, lots of calories." Cracking open the can of cola, some of it fizzing over onto his hand, he nods towards the water Hannibal's still cradling between his palms. "It's not ideal but it's something. Hand me that cup."

"I don't think – "

"Hannibal." Will looks him square in the chest. "Hand me that cup."

Slowly, Hannibal rises out of his chair and pours the water into the small basin tucked away in the corner of the cell. Will ignores the way he shuffles slightly, as though his feet are too heavy for him to lift, as he approaches the glass that separates them, slipping the cup into the food tray for Will to retrieve. Will pours the cola until the froth reaches the very top before sliding it back.

Hannibal doesn't take it.

"That's not even half a can," Will tells him, though he's not sure why. He's not here to reassure him. Or, at least, he hadn't thought so.

"Yes, but do you know how many chemicals are in it?" Hannibal sniffs derisively, his nose wrinkling. "I can smell them. Bubbling like acid in a car battery."

"Then hold your breath."

There's a beat. Neither of them move and Will can hear the pop and fizz of carbonation against the sides of the polystyrene in the yawning silence.

Perhaps it's desperation that finally convinces Hannibal to bend to the situation, perhaps it's only the opportunity to keep Will here a little longer, just another moment, but, as he finally takes the cup back into his cell, Will breathes a quiet sigh of relief. It almost feels like a victory.

Hannibal twists his wrist, swirling the cola as he peers suspiciously into the cup. He swallows thickly and Will sits forward to watch, elbows resting on his knees.

He has one quick mouthful, and then another, swallowing so hastily that Will's certain that he doesn't get the chance to taste anything. Maybe that's the point. Without a napkin to hand, Hannibal raises his arm and wipes his sleeve across his mouth to remove any trace of stickiness, shuddering.

Will raises an eyebrow at him. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

Hannibal shoots him a look. "Yes, it was." He swallows again, thickly, around what Will presumes must feel like a frog in his throat. "This isn't helping, Will. If anything, it's putting me off my appetite."

Will can't quite keep the sourness out of his voice.

"That's not entirely a bad thing, is it, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal says nothing and, instead, sets the cup down on the floor beside his chair, the corners of his mouth twisted in distaste.

"Here." Leaving it unopened, Will passes a Snicker's bar through the slot. "You're not allergic to peanuts, are you?"

"No," comes the reluctant reply and Hannibal reaches for it with even less enthusiasm than he had the soft drink. He turns the packaging between his fingers, flipping it over to inspect the ingredients on the back.

"Unnatural, completely processed. It's the best you're getting out of me."

"Your best never _was_ good enough, was it, Will?" Any trace of friendliness, that false camaraderie that Will has always taken for granted when it comes to Hannibal, has dried up. Hannibal regards him coolly, holding the chocolate with the very tips of his fingers as though reluctant even to touch the wrapper, his expression carefully blank. "You tried your best to catch the Chesapeake Ripper and look where that got you."

Will opens his mouth to say something - on reflection, he can't guess what it might have been, he hopes it would have been cutting – but quickly closes it again. He won't rise to it. Hannibal's as good as dangling one of Will's fishing lures in front of him, waiting for Will to snap at it. Everything with Hannibal, Will has to remind himself, is a distraction from the truth.

Taking a breath, Will sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I'm not the one sitting in a cage," Will says evenly, carefully studying Hannibal for a visible reaction. Unsurprisingly, there isn't one. "So, are you going to eat that or not? Because if you won't then I'll just sit here and eat it in front of you."

"I can't." Like the drink, Lecter sets the Snicker's bar on the floor beside his feet. For the dogs, for the rats, Will suspects he probably doesn't care. What it isn't for, however, is human consumption.

"You're acting like a child," Will tells him firmly, very nearly in disbelief. "I know it's not exactly _steak au poivre_ but you don't really have the luxury of being choosy. Is this what you've been doing the whole time. Refusing meals?"

"Not refusing them, no." Hannibal sighs and strokes a hand along his jaw, pressing his fingers together with the sticky residue of the cola Will had spilled over the side of the cup. He's quick to go back to the basin, scrubbing his fingers beneath the water and, shaking away some of the excess – Will can see the surgeon in him shining through for just a moment – dabs some over his face and the back of his neck.

"Then what?" Will asks, tilting his head.

Hannibal doesn't answer. Instead, he gingerly picks up the cup and brings it back over to the hatch.

"Your little experiment has failed you, Will," he says, holding it out and waiting for Will to get to his feet. "This conversation is leading us nowhere."

Will stubbornly stays in his seat.

"One bite," he counters, watching as something dark colours Hannibal's expression, rising out of him like smoke. "And then I'll leave you alone."

"Will. Do you have any idea how many people have begged me to take just one bite?" They've never spoken about Hannibal's cannibalism, not openly. It was always just a whisper on the edge of his hearing, lost in the noise of news reports and flash photography. Something in Will's stomach tightens, as though there's a knot in his intestines and Hannibal has given it a tug.

"I remember one man offered to me his leg in exchange for his life. As if it could be bought so cheaply."

"Maybe," Will starts, stuttering. "Maybe I shouldn't bother. Sometimes, it's easy to forget that you're insane… But then you say something like that. It – I suppose it makes it's easier. To remember that you're just a monster."

A shadow falls across Lecter's face and, finally dropping his arm and setting the cup on the food tray between them, he takes a step back from the bars, crouching to pick up the chocolate he'd set on the floor. Will senses that it's only to appease him, to make sure that he sticks around to witness what he's worked for. Still, he doesn't get up to leave.

Hannibal tears the wrapper open at the top, peeling it down the sides of the candy bar with the same sensuality with which he might undress a woman, carefully easing it down. Will's all too aware of Hannibal's eyes on him, penetrating all the way to the back of his skull and bumping against it like a wasp at a window.

Finally, Hannibal takes a precise bite, no more than the width of a finger.

It's slimy and hard all at once, bursting with a sweetness that makes the hinges of his jaw ache and makes his tongue swell in his mouth. He chews once, more sugar oozing sickeningly between his teeth, sticking them together and all Hannibal can smell is the harsh tang of the preservatives stinging the back of his nose.

The lump already lodged in his throat starts to swell and Hannibal works to swallow around the one already beginning to melt on his tongue. His stomach lurches once in protest, stabbing so painfully that he looks down at himself to make sure there isn't the end of a knife protruding from his abdomen. He hides his grimace behind the long bangs of his hair.

His throat constricts and Hannibal can feel something tugging at the back of his tongue, something bitter and hard. However hard he tries, he can't swallow past it. He does the only thing he can do.

Hannibal fumbles for the basin and immediately spits into it, shoulders heaving and his chin quivering as he fights the urge to vomit, the taste of sour cola already beginning to crawl up his throat. He shudders with the effort, his knees feeling suddenly watery as they always do whenever nausea grips at him. He has to lean against the sink, gripping it for support and tries not to curl in on himself as his stomach begins to ache, throbbing in time with each flutter of his heart.

It's only been four weeks and already Hannibal can feel the strength of his body, once wiry and powerful, beginning to deteriorate.

He spits into the basin to rid himself of the sugary taste and the gunk already beginning to collect at the back of his gums.

"I - I told you I couldn't," he manages to gasp, shakily.

He doesn't look up as Will's voice floats over to him. "How long have you suffered from sitophobia?"


End file.
